I was in bed. Blanket pulled up. Water at my lips. My brain wouldn’t stop. Loops spinning, tightening, asking the same questions I’m sick of answering: why am I always alone? Why can’t I feel light? Why does it always feel like it’s me against everything?
I hated it. I hated the ache. I hated the quiet that made the noise louder. I wanted to be held. I wanted warmth that wasn’t improvised. I wanted normal, whatever that is.
Still, I stayed. Still, I breathed. I pressed into the blanket. I sipped water. I counted random facts like they were life rafts. Anything to interrupt the spiral. Anything to keep me here.
There was no victory in it. No peace. No moment anyone else would notice. Just survival, thin, raw, sharp as glass. Small anchors holding against a storm I couldn’t fight.
Last night, I held on. Blanket. Water. Breath. Distractions that barely worked but worked enough.
That’s all I had.
And last night, it was enough.